


"will you marry me?"

by oddlyqueer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, FTM Enjolras, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Period-Typical Transphobia, Supportive Grantaire, Trans Enjolras, Trans Male Character, enjolras is asexual though it's never mentioned, my enjolras is always ace and trans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 07:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19329925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddlyqueer/pseuds/oddlyqueer
Summary: tw for lots of dysphoria talk, self-hatred, and internalized transphobia. yay 1830s for being so progressive :/i'd like to thank @vivelapluto and @garconrouge for beta-ing this for me. you two rock!





	"will you marry me?"

**Author's Note:**

> tw for lots of dysphoria talk, self-hatred, and internalized transphobia. yay 1830s for being so progressive :/
> 
> i'd like to thank @vivelapluto and @garconrouge for beta-ing this for me. you two rock!

“Will you marry me?”

_ On second thought, I could have worded that better. _

Grantaire blinks, staring up at me from the table where he sits. The meeting has been over for nearly an hour, but he is still here- drinking, as usual. 

“I’m sorry; I believe I misheard you,” he says, his words slow and heavy. It may just be the wine, but there is a decided flush across his cheeks. I am in no place to judge, however. I can feel the heat coloring my face, and I am certain I’m bright red. “I believe you just… I must have misheard. Did you say that you wanted to—you just said that you wanted to  _ marry _ me.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice choked. “That is… that’s what I said.”

“But—never mind all of the logistics at this exact moment; that all can wait. There is a slightly more pressing issue at hand; that being the fact that you  _ hate me. _ ” 

He isn’t exactly wrong. I know that I’ve made my distaste for his cynicism known on multiple occasions, and for his drinking, and his sarcasm, and his insistence on debating me on every single topic—

This is a terrible idea. I had thought that choosing someone that I had already considered potential romantic feelings for would be smart. If I chose someone that Icould possibly love, that would mean I would have to lie slightly less. That was definitely good, as I am an absolutely terrible liar. However, the downside of choosing Grantaire—a downside that I should have foreseen—is the horrible emotional torment of getting married to  _ Grantaire _ . 

“I don’t hate you.” This is all I can manage to say. 

“It certainly seems that way,” he replies, taking another swig of the wine. There is a resigned tone in his voice that hurts me to hear. 

“What will convince you?” I pause. “That I don’t hate you. What will convince you that I don’t hate you?”

He laughs sharply, though there is no humor in it. “Apollo dearest, you should know better than anyone that I am impossible to convince of anything.”

I sigh. “R. What will convince you?”

This seems to take him back a bit. He actually mulls it over for a few moments, staring down into his drink. I wait with bated breath, my heart pounding in my chest. When it has been much too long and he has not replied, I am out of options. 

Sighing sharply, I lean down, grab him by the lapels of his waistcoat, and pull him up into a kiss.

I can feel his shock in the way his face changes against mine. After a few moments— _ long enough to convince him, _ I think—I pull away, feeling a headache coming on. My hands shake as I release Grantaire and he falls back into his chair, a stunned look on his face. If I wasn’t so nervous about the results of this conversation, I would laugh. 

“Well, that’s it,” he says, placing a hand on his forehead. “Consider me a convert. Skeptic no more. You have successfully convinced me of something.”

In spite of myself, I grin. If I have won nothing else tonight, I have made Grantaire more of a friend to me than he was before. 

“There are other slight problems, you know,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from him at his table. I take his offer, sitting there in front of him. “Not the least of which being that we do, ah, happen to both be men. If you hadn’t noticed.”

I glare at him. “I had.”

“And you see no problems with that and your… suggestion?”

The part I have been dreading is here. I brush my hair out of my face and look at Grantaire, taking his hands from across the table. 

“Once I say this, it does not leave this room,” I say, my tone becoming more serious. “Do you understand? Not a word of this leaves. You do not speak of it to anyone. Not even to any of the others. This is a matter of life and death for me, R.”

He nods. “It will not leave this room.”

“Do you swear?”

“Yes.” He seems, thankfully, to grasp the seriousness of the situation.

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself. “When I was born—”

“Will this take long? I feel as though I should be drunker than I am, and this—” he gestures to his half-empty cup—“will not be enough to get me through one of your tirades.”

I sigh. “Will you please just listen?”

Something in my voice must strike a chord with him, because he puts the cup down and begins watching me attentively. This is somehow worse than him not listening. 

“If you are so easily bored, I will endeavor to be brief,” I say sharply. “My parents do not believe that they have a son. There is… a slight problem of biology where my gender is concerned.”

Grantaire, to my surprise, nods.

“My family does not know. They are still blissfully unaware that their only daughter is, in reality, their only son.”

“And this is why you must marry.”

“You are—calmer about this than I expected of you,” I say. In truth, I expected either disbelief or disgust, two reactions of Grantaire’s with which I am not unfamiliar. 

“Do you think those like you are so rare? Why, I could point you to at least two families I have met who are in a situation similar to yours. Without even leaving this district, you could meet with several women in similar predicaments. I am most certainly not unfamiliar with… men like you.”

Though I was not expecting it, hearing Grantaire call me a man makes my heart swell.

“You are willing to marry me, then?”

He laughs. “Oh, of course. If I was not, would I have stayed for your whole explanation? You put entirely too much faith in my attention span, my dear.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. So far, this has been going splendidly. Grantaire did not turn me away immediately, and he was not horrified when I explained. Even Combeferre had needed several minutes of explanation before he stopped wanting to use me as a test case for some sort of experiment. 

“There are a few… logistical issues to work out,” I say. 

“Only you would consider a marriage to be a logistical issue,” he replies, a smile on his face. I try to interrupt, but he laughs. “I am only joking. What must we do?”

“The problem of who will do the proposing to my parents springs to mind. I had thought that perhaps—Combeferre?” 

“He already knows, then?”

I nod. When he had first met me, we were both young, and he had not made the connection between myself and the child he had known many years ago until I explained. To his credit, the way he treated me has not changed at all, aside from a bit more worrying about my health. 

“It certainly seems to be more convenient,” he says. “And we will not tell anyone else?”

“No,” I say quickly. The idea of telling anyone makes me ill. “They must not know. If anyone besides us three—if the secret got out—” 

“I understand,” he says, trying to reassure me. My breath slows again, and I relax. 

“So. We are to be married.”

“And here I thought you were excited,” he remarks. “Are you unhappy that it is me that you must marry?”

Though he is joking, I can hear the truth in it.

“R—” I begin.

“It is not proper to call your husband by his last name, even a short form of it,” he says, cutting me off. “Just Michel will do.”

“Michel,” I echo, looking at him. In some way, it seems to suit him.

“You won’t return the favor? I cannot call you Apollo forever.”

I go red. “Actually, you can,” I say, embarrassed. “I chose it because of you.”

Grantaire smiles. “Well, I cannot say it doesn’t suit you.”

— 

“You  _ what?  _ Are you two  _ mad? _ ”

Combeferre paces around the apartment, running both hands through his hair. I can feel the tension in the air.

“You have to understand, my parents were pressuring me into answering their questions,” I say, still worried that he won’t agree. When I had brought R over to tell Combeferre the news, I had honestly expected him to take it well. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

“You could have picked anyone else! Why him, of all people?”

“I think I should be insulted,” Grantaire says, eyeing Combeferre coolly.

“I meant nothing by it, I just—I worry about him enough as it is, and now I’ll have to—”

“You’ll have to worry about him being married to  _ me. _ ” Grantaire’s voice was heavy. Final. There was no humor in it, none of his usual good nature. The way he says it is very final, as if he has come to a decision.

After a moment of silence, Combeferre speaks up. “Grantaire, please don’t take that the wrong way,” he said, a note of exhaustion in his voice.

Grantaire stands up from the table, pushing the chair in and making his way to the door. I see some unfamiliar expression on his face. It’s not exactly disappointment. Trying to identify it, I watch Grantaire as he pulls on his coat and hat.

“I’m leaving,” he says. I finally identify it—resignation. 

“R, please don’t,” I beg, tears springing to my eyes.

“Why not? He’s made it perfectly clear, he won’t help us. I don’t plan on leaving you alone, but if he refuses, I have to find someone to help us.” Grantaire puts a hand on the door. “I know that you do not want me to tell anyone else, and I won’t, not until you approve of it. Perhaps Jehan—he is rather a Romantic, not quite a libertine, but he does have experience in this sort of thing.”

Combeferre holds up a hand. “Who has said I will not help?”

— 

Grantaire has reassured me that he will never see me as anything but myself, but still, as my mother prepares my hair, I cannot help but feel a tinge of worry. The weight of my dress is heavy on my shoulders and hips. She is saying something about how proud she is of me, how much she loves me, but I do not listen. My face burns red as I think of anyone seeing me like this. What everyone would think—what the rest of the  _ Amis _ would think if they saw me.

I stand up, feeling the full weight of the dress hit me. 

_ No one will see you, _ I reassure myself.  _ It will be you and Grantaire and no one else. Then you will never have to touch a dress again. There is nothing to be afraid of here. _

She smiles at me, pride in her eyes. I try to smile back, but it comes out wrong.

“Nervous?” she asks, smiling at me again. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear. You are alright.”

I take a deep breath, steel myself, and pick up the bouquet laying on the table. It feels so  _ wrong _ to be doing this, but I know that I must.  _ Just this one thing, and you will be free, _ I tell myself, but what little comfort that idea had brought me before is gone. I have no hope left.

“Here, are you ready?” she asks, adjusting my veil once more. In spite of myself, I nod. 

When I enter the wedding hall, I feel all of my worries multiply. Everyone is staring at me—everyone except Grantaire. He does not look at me, and I am incredibly thankful for that. 

As I take the pen in shaking hands, I feel Grantaire close to me. It is almost horrible, how different I feel here. I do not feel like myself, and if he is near me, it makes me feel even worse. 

When he takes the pen from me and signs the certificate, I feel my stomach drop. In spite of myself, I cringe. My whole body feels like it is shaking. Grantaire steps closer to me, his shoulder pressed against mine. It is not as comforting as I believe he intends it to be.

Gently placing his hands on my face, he pulls me in until I am barely a centimeter from him. We are far enough away that I am not actually touching him, but he closes his eyes, and everyone seems to assume that we are actually kissing. I am thankful for his respect of my boundaries, aside from him actually touching my face, but I understand that this is what must be done. Grantaire is being so genuinely kind to me that I feel almost bad about it.  _ I do not deserve this, _ I think. 

Everything else is a blur—leaving the city hall, the majority of the ball, and my family congratulating me on everything. I am silent for the rest of the day, never leaving Grantaire’s side. After a few hours spent speaking to family members, Grantaire leads me from my family’s home and brings me to the apartment we will now be sharing.

“Are you alright?” Grantaire asks, helping me out of the awful dress. “You were so quiet.”

“I… we will not tell everyone else, correct?”

“Of course not,” he says, undoing his cravat. “It will be between us only.”

“And these?” I point to my ring. It is a gaudy thing, something my mother bought for us, and it barely fits me—it’s much too tight. “What are we to do with these?”

“I suppose we can sell them,” he says, taking his off and placing it on the nightstand. “That would help us afford rent—we will not be staying here for long, will we? You have rooms in Paris, as do I. We can sell this and return to our normal lives, no need for any sort of—cohabitation.”

“My parents will want to visit. We will have to come up with a reason that they cannot if we sell this place.”

“You do not want them to visit, yes?” I nod. “Then we can just tell them that we have decided to emigrate to Germany or something similar. After all, I have always wanted to live there,” he says with a small smirk. 

“That will certainly convince them,” I say.  _ I have definitely picked the right person to marry, _ I think to myself, smiling. Grantaire has been nothing but welcoming to me, and very accommodating of my… habits. 

“And there is the matter of your hair,” he says as he prepares for bed. “Are you going to leave it long? Or will you cut it?”

“Cut it. All of it. I hate it being long.” Just the feeling of my hair on my back is agony to me. “Now, if we can?”

“Of course,” he says. “I think I have brought scissors… here, let me look. There is something here, I believe.” A few moments later, he finds them, after digging through his valise for a few moments. 

I sit down on the bed, trying to quell the small amount of fear that bubbles up inside me. I had hoped that now that my family had no hold over me, I would not be afraid of them. Since I was young, my family had severely discouraged me from doing anything they perceived as “unladylike”. If I did anything other than exactly what they wanted, there would be… consequences. Even now that they had no control over what I did, I was still afraid of them.

“Are you alright?”

“I… I suppose.” My heart sinks. “Can you just cut it?”

He nods and sits down beside me, running a hand gently through my hair. I sigh.  _ I am not afraid of this. They do not control me.  _ Still, after he first starts cutting my hair, I have to suppress the urge to stop him. Biting my lip, I focus on my breathing. After a few minutes of quiet, Grantaire pulls back, a few lengths of hair clutched in his hand. I sigh in relief, running a hand through my newly short hair. It’s much more comfortable, surprisingly—or unsurprisingly, I suppose.

“We should sleep,” he says, smiling at me. I feel a swell of pride in my heart. 

“R, I—” 

“Shh. It’s okay.”

“Thank you,” I say softly. 

Grantaire just nods. “Now. It’s late. You ought to sleep. Tomorrow morning we will break the unfortunate news of our leaving to your parents.” He smiles at me, running a hand through my hair. 

“Good night,” I say to him. As he prepares for bed, I stand and go to the window, quietly watching the whole city go to sleep. I hear Grantaire climb into bed. Tonight, though, I am too worried to join him. 

— 

“You cut your hair!” 

That is the first thing out of Courfeyrac’s mouth when he sees me again. He’s completely shocked, his eyes wide, and I honestly think he might pass out. 

“Yes. He did.” Combeferre doesn’t look all too pleased with it, either. My heart sinks. 

“I thought you’d be happy for me,” I say, hurt. Brushing a hand through my hair, I look over at the rest of the Amis. “What is it? Why don’t you like it?” 

“It isn’t that I don’t like it,” Courfeyrac says slowly. “You are slightly more in fashion now, which is definitely an improvement. It is just that… it will take some getting used to. Specifically the fashionable part.”

“Oh, very polite,” I say, rolling my eyes. Grantaire smiles. 

“I mean no offense by it, of course,” Courfeyrac says with a smile. “You just don’t strike me as the type to care about your looks. And you evidently don’t, if your having long hair for all those years is any evidence. Trust me, Enjolras, even right now you aren’t in high fashion.”

I sigh and look over at Grantaire. “You aren’t going to correct them, are you.”

“I’m sorry, but it isn’t precisely… wrong.”

“Oh, not you too!” I cover my face with both hands and lean back, staring at the wall behind me. 

As the rest of the meeting progresses, I get so many comments on my hair that I start to ignore them. Courfeyrac offers to bring me new clothes, which I decline at first, but he is so insistent that I accept if only to get him to be quiet for once. There are so many distractions that I barely get a word in about procuring the weapons we were supposed to be finding. It would be annoying if it weren’t exactly the same thing that had happened at every other meeting for the past month.

Grantaire takes my hand under the table, clutching it tightly. I hope that no one can see it. Although I don’t want to admit it, he is genuinely comforting me. Spending time near Grantaire has been helpful for me. 

The meeting comes to a close, and Courfeyrac promises to bring me more clothing at the next meeting. Soon enough, no one is left in the cafe but myself and Grantaire. 

“Will you be coming home tonight?” I ask him. The past few nights, he has been out drinking, and though my worrying makes me feel uncomfortably like his wife, I do not want him hurting himself. 

“Yes.” Grantaire pauses. “Home. You consider the apartment home, now?”

I feel myself flush red. “I mean—I don’t think that I—”

“It’s alright,” Grantaire says, smiling at me. “I don’t much mind your living with me. We are married, after all.”

“Someone might hear,” I hiss, glancing around the cafe for a few moments. Though it has been a few weeks since we were married and nothing has happened, I am still paranoid that they will overhear us. Grantaire gently places his hands on my shoulders.

“How about this? If I do not go out tonight, you must promise me that you will sleep. Alright?”

I hesitate. Sleep sounds wonderful—I have not slept in at least three days. The stress of my new life as a married man on top of all the rest of my stress has been too much for me. Grantaire has been worried, to say the least, about my habits, but has not interfered. Until now.

“Apollo. You promise me that you’ll sleep?”

After a moment, I nod. Grantaire smiles, a look of relief crossing his face, and takes me by the arm, leading me out of the cafe and back towards the home we now share.

— 

Grantaire is already in bed before I have even begun undressing. It always takes me rather a long time to get ready for bed. Much of the reason for this is the dissonance between my mind and my body, but more of it is due to my reluctance to sleep.

“Apollo. You’ve been staring at your reflection for the past five minutes. Will you be going to bed in full dress, or do you actually plan on sleeping comfortably?”

I go red. “I will be there presently,” I say, finally starting to pick at the messy knot of my cravat. 

When I am finally finished with my clothing, Grantaire gets out of bed and puts his arms around me, leaning his head on my shoulder.

Though we have technically been married for nearly a month, there has been no intimacy between us. When he held my hand at the meeting, it was the most we had touched for a week. And now… this. Everything about this is just so new to me. After all, I have been relatively isolated for most of my life—sometimes by choice. Though I am not opposed to the whole notion of touch, it does seem a bit useless to me at the moment. 

“You’ve been so stressed,” he says quietly. “I know that you have your revolution, and all of that nonsense, but that is not as important as your health. And tonight you promised to sleep.”

I sigh. Grantaire is hardly persuasive, but I can feel the effects of my exhaustion setting in at this point, and he seems to be truly dedicated to getting me to sleep. Still, some part of me doesn’t want me to give in. Perhaps it’s because the one doing the convincing is Grantaire. 

Finally, though, I give in, allowing myself to be led to the bed— _ Grantaire’s _ bed. For a moment, I hesitate. 

He would not—he has told me that, on many occasions. I am fully aware of the respect that he has for my boundaries, and know that he would never cross them. I have made sure that I will be respected, and while I do not doubt Grantaire, there are still certain… connotations. He seems to notice my worry, though, and takes his hand off my back. In spite of myself, I sigh in relief, which I am sure is impolite. Grantaire must have taken offense. However, when I look at him, he does not seem upset. He seems to understand.

“If you would prefer to sleep separately—”

“For tonight? If that is alright?”

“Of course,” he says quickly, taking a few steps away from him. As soon as he is gone, I long for his touch once again. He sits down on his bed, looking at me expectantly. After a moment that must be too long for comfort, I realize that he is waiting for me to leave. 

For a moment, I debate just staying. He had offered, and I am more likely to sleep if he is here to make sure that I do. But in the end, I just leave, closing the door gently behind myself. 

It is lonely in my room, and I am troublingly aware of my own body. Grantaire is sleeping in the other room; I can hear him snoring. If I just went back, and woke up earlier than he did, no one would know— 

_ No, _ I chide myself.  _ Go to sleep. _

And so I do, after no small amount of struggling. The sun is reaching the horizon before I have even closed my eyes.

— 

The habit of sleeping apart lasts approximately two more days.

— 

Courfeyrac notices that something is off at the next meeting. He tries to get answers out of me, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of being right—his first guess was “a romance”, which was then followed by “a romance with someone we know”. 

“Come on! Tell me!” He is still pestering me. 

“Please, let's get back on track,” I say, picking up my papers and spreading them out on the table. Unfortunately, Courfeyrac's eyes fall on the drawings of me in the margins. I mentally curse myself for allowing Grantaire to help me transcribe notes from my books. He has drawn me on nearly every page.

“Oh, what are these, then?” He picks one up, looking down at the drawing. This one is of me, of course, a book in my lap, looking out from the page with a fond expression on my face. I remember this one—it had been a long day of studying, and Grantaire had tried to cheer me up—by flirting with me, of course.

“They're nothing,” I say, feeling my face heat up. “Now, if we can actually start the meeting—”

“This doesn't look like nothing,” Courfeyrac says teasingly, picking up a second page. The sketch on this page is somehow even more damning—it is signed with an unmistakable R in the corner.

“I said, it's nothing.” I try to take the paper, covering the R with my hand, but Courfeyrac pulls it away and—of course—immediately looks at what I was trying to hide.

“Oh my,” Courfeyrac says teasingly. “What have we here?”

“Give it back,”I say petulantly. I sound like a child, and I know it, but this is just so humiliating. Their curiosity piqued, Jehan and Bahorel walk over to join him.

“Why, this looks like the work of our own Grantaire,” Bahorel says in mock surprise. The smirk on his face is infuriating.

“Now, why would this be here? Why would there be a drawing of Enjolras on his paper, when he and R have been leaving the meetings together for weeks, and they have been holding hands under the table for about that long?” Jehan says, pretending to think on it. 

I look over at Grantaire, who is bright red and looks about as embarrassed as I feel.  _ I didn’t realize that anyone had noticed us holding hands _ , I think, biting my lip.

“Oh, shut up,” Grantaire says at last, his voice harsh. “If you know what’s going on, just say it. No need to be so mean about it.” 

Courfeyrac laughs. “We’ve known for a while. Well, at least, I have. It was quite obvious, the way you look at each other. I think it started about a month ago. Maybe a bit more. And you two have been making eyes at each other for a long while before this, too.”

I glance at Grantaire. He is looking down at the floor.  _ For how long? I had never noticed that Grantaire was looking at me… like that.  _

“Um.” I look back at my papers, straightening them up once again. Grantaire is still staring down at his shoes, and I wonder if he hadn’t meant for me to ever find out. Honestly, I hadn’t meant for him to find out my feelings for him, either. 

Continuing the meeting, I keep noticing Grantaire stealing glances at me. I feel myself blush. 

The end of the meeting comes much too slowly. We haven’t gotten much planning done, just thrown around a few ideas that we had for getting the weapons that we need. As the meeting draws to its natural close, I look over at Grantaire, who has been sketching through the whole meeting. He looks very focused on what he’s doing. I wander over to him and look over his shoulder at the pages. 

The majority of the sketches are of me. Standing over my plans, pointing down at a map—everything perfectly catalogued in charcoal. 

“These are beautiful,” I say, picking them up. 

“Oh. Thank you.” He looks almost embarrassed by my compliment, and starts to clean up his workspace. “Are we to leave now?”

“Yes.” I look behind me. Everyone seems to have noticed that we are leaving. Together. It is quite obvious that we are… together. 

As he cleans up, taking the sketches back from me, I watch the others. Courfeyrac, specifically, seems to be very interested in my and R’s interactions. It is incredibly uncomfortable—especially since we have a revolution to plan, and if they are all obsessed with what is happening between myself and Grantaire, there will be problems.

The others start to leave. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are closer than before—very close. I notice Combeferre brush hands with Courfeyrac. It may be accidental, but the way that Courfeyrac reacts makes me think that it might not be. 

Soon enough, Grantaire and I are left alone. I lean against the table, closing my eyes. I have no energy left. He seems to notice this and helps me up, picking up my bag for me. 

The kindness he has displayed to me is so undeserved. I feel almost guilty about it. It makes me uncomfortable, incredibly guilty, and I know that I do not deserve it. Grantaire helps me to the door. All I can think about is the fact that he is still holding my hand. 

— 

When we return to the apartment, Grantaire sighs and leans on the door. He stretches for a moment, leaning back, and then walks over to me. For a moment, he puts his arms around me, pulling me close. I turn away, closing my eyes, and Grantaire steps back. The feeling I get— _ you do not deserve this _ —comes back, and I feel tears welling in my eyes. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, looking at me worriedly. Again, I feel guilty from the treatment he is giving me. I don’t deserve any of this. 

“I… I’m sorry. I don’t want to make you worry,” I say. There is a decided tremor in my voice that cannot be ignored. Grantaire still looks unconvinced. Worried, even.

“Please tell me what’s wrong,” he says, brushing a hand through my hair. I shiver from the touch, pulling away from him. He still looks incredibly worried, and I feel a sudden pang of guilt for making him upset. Mostly, though, I still feel like I am a bad person for  _ being  _ upset.

“I… I don’t want to hurt you,” I say cautiously. The tears in my eyes are threatening to spill over. “I shouldn’t talk about this, I’m sorry.”

“Of course. You do not have to talk about this.” He places his hands gently on my shoulders. I flinch, but I do not pull away. My heart feels like it is about to burst. “But if you are hurt, you really ought to talk to someone. I am not saying that it must be me, but I do think you really should talk about it. You deserve happiness, my Apollo.” 

When he says “my Apollo”, the tears finally spill. I throw my arms around him and cry into his chest, desperate for comfort. He gently runs his hands through my hair, holding me close. My head is pounding. 

“I’m sorry,” I say into his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, Apollo,” he says softly. There is so much that I want to tell him, but still I hesitate. Telling him might make everything worse. 

“I feel like I am not worthy of your love,” I say between sobs. “You do so much for me, and you care about me, and I deserve none of it.”

“Why do you think that you don’t deserve it?” he asks, trailing his hands across my back. “You do. I want to make that clear to you. You deserve all of my affection.”

“I keep thinking of my family and my parents, and how they would see me,” I say, my voice quiet. Even though it is only Grantaire, and he has already proven tenfold that he loves me, I am still ashamed. “I keep thinking of how much they would hate me—how much  _ I _ hate me. If any of the others could see me now, they’d hate me for everything, they’d think I was disgusting—”

“No, they would not,” he says softly. “They all love you, alright? You are their leader. You matter to them.”

“But I—”

“Shh. No buts.” He pulls me in even closer. “You are important.”

I still barely believe him. At this point, I do not know if I can. But Grantaire is here, and he is comforting me, and although I still feel powerless, he has made the thoughts rushing through my head slow down. 

“Now. It is quite late, and you have most certainly tired yourself out,” he says. 

“Grantaire, I’m not a child,” I scoff.

“Oh, you’re not? Could have fooled me.” He laughs and presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, moving a few stray locks of hair out of my face. There is a look of such genuine fondness on his face as he gazes down at me that I cannot help but smile. 

As he pulls me in towards his bed— _ our _ bed now, I think—I feel a sudden chill run down my back. Grantaire seems to notice this, running his hands gently over my hair, down to my shoulders and my back. Finally, his hands stop, finally coming to rest on my hips.

“To bed, then?”

“To bed,” I echo, taking a deep breath. 

— 

I wake up entangled in a pile of blankets, sheets, and Grantaire. I cover my eyes with one hand, shifting so that the sun does not hit my eyes at quite such an angle. After a few moments, I feel Grantaire stir as well. 

For a moment, he seems to be slightly confused, but after a few seconds, he fully wakes. I smile up at him, and he smiles back down at me. There is warmth in his eyes, a genuine happiness that I have not seen in him in such a long time. It makes me so happy to see him looking like this.  _ He deserves this, _ I think to myself, leaning my head against his shoulder gently.  _ He deserves to be happy. _

Curled up against each other in bed, I can feel him breathing. It is comfortable.  _ Life _ is comfortable. I had never thought that I would live my life like this. Certainly not with Grantaire. Marriage had been out of the question for me—a formality to appease the constant anger of my family. However, what had originally been born half out of spite and half out of necessity has become something more. 

He shifts down towards me, so that we are face-to-face. As he smiles down at me, I finally lean in and kiss him. 

There is something to be said for the romance of a first kiss. It is not what I thought it would be, of course. I had expected to live my life alone, locked away from affection, married to someone for convenience’s sake and never even mentioning it. This is a far cry from my imagined future. This is practically unreal, and somehow it is.  This is absolutely perfect, and I would not trade it for the world.

As I pull away from Grantaire, our foreheads still touching, I look up at him. He looks perfectly happy, as if this is exactly what he wants out of life.

As I stare into his eyes, I think that maybe this is what I want too.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you everyone for reading! i'd like to let those of you who are regulars around these parts know that i'm taking a brief hiatus of about 3 weeks since i'm going away for a bit. this means my longfic will be on hold. i may post a oneshot if i manage to finish it, though.
> 
> thanks so much for reading, and as always, comments and kudos are much appreciated!


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